


The Game of Life

by withthekeyisking



Category: Batman (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Assassin Dick Grayson, Assassination, Depression, Descent Into Darkness, Flashbacks, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, More tags to be added, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Villain Dick Grayson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28589217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: In one fell swoop, Dick's lost his entire family. And he can't find it in himself to care about anything else.(AKA the Bats of Gotham have been killed, and Nightwing is going to get rid of each and every person responsible.)
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Various
Comments: 106
Kudos: 237





	1. Grief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LuthienLuinwe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuthienLuinwe/gifts).



> Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, Lu, from your Secret Santa! <3 This has been sitting in my word docs for over a week now _(*shakes fist at my awful WiFi*)_ and I am so pleased to finally be able to share it with you. I hope you enjoy it as much as I've enjoyed being your friend :)
> 
> A small warning to readers! Dick's mental state in this fic can be categorized as Really Not Good, especially in this first chapter. Reread the tags, take care of yourselves 👍

Dick stands in front of the graves, eyes sliding over the shiny tombstones. His gaze catches on each of their names, on the dates etched into stone. They've been meticulously cleaned and cared for, the quality telling just how expensive they must've been.

He wonders who bought them. It would've been him, right? He's the one with all the money now, after all. He's the one who inherited the _Wayne fortune._ He's even the executor of the will. Who else would've bought the headstones and the flowers and the coffins? Who else would've been able to, who else _should have?_

Dick doesn't remember if he actually had any say in any of this. It's all very...tasteful. He approves, at least, of whoever managed to pull this off. It's a nice funeral. A pretty plot of land. So many people in attendance.

He can hear them around him, talking to each other, shuffling around, attempting to pay their respects. Many of them are leaving by this point, some patting him on the shoulder as they go, and he wishes they would all just leave him alone. The funeral is over, the coffins in the ground, the dirt plastered over them. There's nothing left here for anyone. He just wants to be alone.

Seven graves.

One is child-sized.

Dick closes his eyes, but the images follow him anyway. Their names carved into the headstones with their birthdays and their _deathday_ and the fresh dirt in front of them, his _family_ once again buried in the _ground—_

He can hear them screaming. Can hear the sounds of pain none of them could manage to keep in as their limbs burned and bullets tore through flesh. The sick sound of blood being drawn as a knife went in and was pulled back out. Can see the desperation on their faces as the man said _We're done here,_ as the goons rose their weapons and started going down the line, picking them off one by one—

Dick remembers screaming himself hoarse, remembers the terror and the despair and the _desolation_ watching the people he loves get killed right in front of him, seeing his brothers and sister and father and _son_ get shot point blank like they're _animals._ And then that single moment of peace when the gun was aimed at him, that tiny, pure moment of acceptance that he was dying too, it was the end for him too but at least they'd all be together—

And then the roof caved in and Superman stood in the center of the room, far too late to actually save the day.

Dick wishes he could stop seeing the look in Damian's eyes as the boy realized there was nothing any of them could do. The terrified _'Richard'_ when he locked eyes with him, right before the bullet knocked his head back and snuffed the life from his Robin for the second time.

But good old Nightwing survived. Superman might've been too late for Batman and Robin and Red Hood and Red Robin and Batgirl and Spoiler and Signal but sure, he was in time for Nightwing. He was fast enough to keep Dick from dying. Just not anyone else.

He'd give his life for any of them. He would trade his life in an _instant_ if it meant Damian or Tim or _any_ of them could be standing here instead. For them to keep breathing, keep surviving. He'd—he'd give himself over _without hesitation_ if it meant his family would get to live.

Dick doesn't really remember it, but apparently Clark had to drag him out of that room kicking and screaming. He had a good amount of injuries, needed medical attention, they weren't sure he was going to survive—and still he wanted nothing more than to stay right there with his family, like he should've been.

He still feels that way. He was supposed to die with them. If Clark had simply been a few seconds later, this would be a very different tale.

Clark was far too slow, and then far too fast; why couldn't he have gotten there sooner? Saving Dick after the rest of them were already dead is just...a patch job. A self-pat on the back for at least accomplishing _something._

Part of him—the rational, healthy part—knows that's not how Clark sees it. That he's grateful to have saved one of them, and grieves for the others. Feels _guilt_ over having been too late to save Bruce and everyone else.

But rationality has no place in grief.

Dick hears the person approaching, so he doesn't startle when the hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing with the gentleness of someone with super-strength who has gotten used to lessening themselves.

"Hey," Donna says softly. "It was a nice service."

It was, for what Dick paid attention to. A lot of speakers, a lot of kind words. A relatively nice day for Gotham, a beautiful hilltop. If you were ever going to have a funeral...

"Roy's pulling the car around," Donna tells him. "Figured it might be more fun to carpool with Lian picking the music than with Clark; can't take the country out of the boy."

Carpool, right. To go back to the Manor for Part Two of this affair. Where everyone is going to eat and share stories and talk about how much they're going to miss the ones who are dead now. Where people will ask him every five seconds how he's holding up, and if he needs anything, and offer their shoulders to cry on. And they'll all give him worried looks and sympathetic smiles, and...

"I think I'm good," Dick says quietly.

Donna's hand tightens minutely on his shoulder. "We can skip it, if you want," she offers. "Play hooky like the old days, head to Titans Tower. We can all just...hang out."

"I'd rather be alone right now."

"I know," Donna says sadly. "I know you would. But it's...Dick, if there's ever a time to be around people, it's now. Your family—"

Dick shrugs her hand off, and she lets him. He starts to walk away. "I'm fine, Don. I'll see you around."

"Dick, please."

But he doesn't stop, shoving his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders. He ignores all of the eyes he can feel on him, focusing on the crunch of grass under his feet instead.

It sounds too much like the rubble slipping under his boots as Clark dragged him from the room.

Dick needs a fucking _drink._

* * *

He ends up at a club.

He doesn't know what club, or what part of Gotham he's in, but he doesn't care. That's the whole point really, to forget. To stop seeing the blood everywhere. To stop hearing them scream. To stop wishing he'd died with them.

If Dick can still think about all of that, then clearly he hasn't been drinking enough.

The bartender gives him a wary look when he orders another shot, but she doesn't cut him off, pouring the liquor and then taking his money as he slams it back. Everything gets a little bit fuzzier, a little bit brighter, and he lets someone grab his sleeve and tug him out onto the dance floor.

The music pounds in his ears, loud enough to ache. Almost loud enough to drown out Bruce begging for them to be spared. The warm press of bodies against himself is almost enough to forget how cold it was lying on that warehouse floor.

The hand that suddenly cups his groin scatters the thoughts completely.

He lets it continue, and the lack of a 'no' has whoever it is gripping harder, massaging at him through his far too expensive slacks. They're—or someone else?—grinding against his ass, erection obvious. There are hands on his hips. There's one sliding through his hair.

He's surrounded, closed in. He can barely breathe, blinking dazedly up at the neon lights far above him. His head is spinning, a sensation that gets even worse when someone pulls him in for a kiss.

He lets it happen, throwing himself into the distraction. He lets himself be manhandled, pulled through the crowds, going where the hands and warm bodies want him to go. He focuses on the feelings, not on the screams waiting just around the corner.

But, wait, they're—they're leaving the main part of the club, it's getting quiet and dark and _cold—_

"You're gorgeous," the man behind him whispers, kissing his neck as the girl in front captures his mouth again. They're outside, in the alley behind the club. The music is a faint thump in the background, the only light that of the moon far above.

He can hear Jason say, _Close your eyes._

It's not fair that they're dead. Why did they have to die? Why _them?_ Hasn't the world taken enough from them? Haven't they suffered _enough?_ What did they do to deserve to die? Why did random assholes like the guy groping Dick get to survive and live happily ever after, but _good_ and _kind_ and _amazing_ people like his family have to suffer, have to _die?_ When does it end? When do they finally deserve their happy ending?

They're dead. They're all fucking _dead,_ and there isn't a damn thing Dick can do about it. They're all dead for _no goddamn reason_ and Dick was _useless_ to save them and he's _useless_ now.

One of them opens Dick's pants, and suddenly it's too much. He can't stand the press of their bodies, their warmth, their lust. He can't _stand_ it.

He throws a punch, he hears the girl shout, feels her stumble away. The world spins around him. The other hands on him tighten, and he jerks his elbow back, slamming it into the guy's gut.

The girl screams, there's the frantic slap of heels on pavement.

The guy throws a punch back, still wheezing, but he's _nothing_ compared to Dick. A high school wrestler, maybe, going by the way he tries to grab Dick's middle; nowhere close to a threat.

It feels good to lay him out. To send the waste of space to the ground and follow him there, slamming his fist into him again and again, drawing blood, _winning._

He can do this now. He can do this. He can win, he can come out victorious. He isn't chained to a wall, helpless to help his family. He is free and alive and he can do whatever the fuck he wants, he can _save—_

The fantasy vanishes as quickly as it came, and he stares down in horror at the bloodied face of the man beneath him. Breaths are rattling in and out of him, his body limp against the alley floor.

_Tim, wheezing, trying to curl up to not let the bat slam into his chest again, his struggles getting weak, all of them limp on the ground—_

Dick vomits on the pavement, hunched over the man he's beaten to near-unconsciousness. His head is spinning, his stomach rolling, and both get worse when he stumbles to his feet, bracing one hand against the club wall.

His vision blurs, and with it the image of the man, shifting into the broken body of Batman. Dick vomits again, nothing but stomach bile.

Slowly, step by step, he manages to get himself to walk down the alley, out onto the main street. He squints, and sees the club's bouncer frowning at him in concern.

"Call m'a cab?" Dick asks, words slurring together, and the bouncer nods, already pulling out his phone.

Dick leans against the wall and closes his eyes, trying to pretend he can't hear the crack of snapped bones.

* * *

The Manor is dark and empty when he finally manages to find his way back.

There are signs that people were here earlier, of an event that wasn't _perfectly_ cleaned up in the way Alfred would've done, years ago. Whoever was in charge of cleaning up the service sure did their best though, and Dick wanders through soulless halls, not a sound other than him.

It's all his now, the great Wayne Manor. The Wayne _legacy._ Wayne Enterprises. Wayne _everything,_ it's all his now. He's a billionaire. He's a— _Christ,_ he's like Bruce, only orphaned older. All alone in this big, empty, mausoleum of a house. Richer than God and with no fucking clue what to do with it.

This was all his once before, of course. When Bruce _'died'._ But he wasn't completely _alone_ then, though, was he? He had Alfred and Damian and the others from time to time. And even those he didn't have, he knew they were at least _there._ He knew they were _out there, alive._

Now it's just...it's just him.

In the den he finds Titus and Alfred the Cat.

They're curled up on the couch by the window in Damian's favorite spot. They lift their heads when Dick enters, and he stares at them, throat thick, before shuffling across the room and plopping down beside them.

Alfred the Cat makes a brief, disgruntled noise as having been shifted, but settles soon enough. Titus lowers his head to rest on Dick's thigh, and Dick scratches him behind the ears automatically.

Over the back of the couch rests a purple fuzzy blanket that Cass would drag back and forth from her room to the den from time to time. When Dick leans into it, he can still faintly smell his little sister.

With his free hand he drags the blanket down and around himself, then stills, allowing the animals to readjust. Titus' head goes back into place on his leg, atop the blanket now.

And Dick tips his head back and closes his eyes, trying and failing to not let the grief swallow him whole.

* * *

Dick doesn't have it in him to be the slightest bit surprised when Clark shows up the next morning.

The man comes bearing gifts in the form of his mother's home-cooked food, with Conner and Jon trailing behind him with empty expressions, Lois finishing off the train with a look of concern.

Whatever's about to happen, Dick already knows he doesn't have the energy for it.

"Good morning!" Clark greets brightly, shuffling past him with an awkward grace when Dick doesn't give much room to get through the doorway. "Get any sleep?"

Dick blinks at him, absently accepting the tight hug Lois pulls him into. "I...sure."

He doesn't miss the brief flash across Clark's face, the worry and grief and guilt of his own. But he's _Superman,_ so he pushes it down. He's here to help his kids, and Dick. He's here to make sure Dick doesn't waste away in this big empty place all by himself.

Fuck, Dick wishes they'd all leave. He wants to be alone. He doesn't want a support system.

"C'mon, kitchen's this way," Clark says, pushing past his hesitation. Dick doesn't point out that all of them have been to the kitchen before and thus know where it is, instead joining the others in shuffling along after him, helpless against the force that is Clark Kent.

Lois wraps her arm around Jon's shoulder. He's so small, for such a powerful being. And looks so...sad. Damian was his best friend. Tim was Conner's. And Clark and Bruce...

They're all grieving.

He knows that's the point of this. Clark is bringing them together, so none of them go through it alone. Grieve together, and all that jazz. Get _through it_ together.

But things like that, it has the implication that the people involved _want_ to get through it. Dick isn't even supposed to be _alive,_ why the hell would he _get through it?_ Why does he deserve that? Why not one of his family? Why aren't they here, being forced into comradery? Why can't everyone just let him go like he's supposed to be?

Clark talks, as he heats up his mother's food. About the farm, and the Daily Planet, and this new singer he likes. And Dick sits and listens to it all, lets the words wash over him, waiting for it to end. Because it _will_ end, eventually. Clark can't stay here forever. He has a job and a life to get back to. The world strangely doesn't stop turning just because a few people died.

Clark is trying to make up for feeling like he failed. Dick can't absolve him of that even if he tried; they're both handling the same guilt, after all. The difference is Dick isn't trying to make his guilt everybody else's problem.

"Kate should be back in town soon," Clark says after a while, when they stand washing the dishes. Dick offered to do them, thinking it would be a chance away from them, but Clark had offered to dry alongside him and so now here they are.

Dick hums an acknowledgement. He'd already received word from Kate before the funeral explaining why she couldn't make it and that she'd be in Gotham as soon as she humanly could be. Dick skipped over the mission bits, over the life-saving bits, because he honestly couldn't find it within himself to care.

"Maybe you guys could hold a small service again," Clark suggests. "So that Kate can—"

"We'll make do," Dick cuts in. Clark is trying to be helpful, and that's good but it's also awful. And Dick doesn't want it. And he's sure as hell not taking part in a second service. Kate is a big girl, she'll take care of herself.

"Right," Clark agrees somewhat awkwardly. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. Uh oh. "I...Look, Dick, I'm—"

"I can clean these tomorrow," Dick interrupts, turning on his heels immediately and striding from the room. His hands drip soapy dish water, but he barely even takes note, walking the familiar path up to his bedroom and closing the door behind him.

They must leave eventually, because when Dick wanders down around seven he finds himself once more in an empty house.

The tray of dishes is completely cleaned.

* * *

He receives quite a few visitors over the next week.

It doesn't take him long to realize there's some sort of schedule that's been put in place, everyone coordinating to make sure he's never completely alone. He'd be _touched_ by all the care if he didn't wish everyone would just knock if off and leave him the hell alone.

Different heroes take to the sky to defend Gotham and Bludhaven in the gaping absence. Normally, that would be cause for gossip—where are the Bats? Why is Arsenal taking down muggers in the Bowery? Why is Aquaman breaking up a bank robbery in Blud's casino district?

Now, though...

It's too big a thing to cover up. One hero dies, sure, we can pretend Bruce went on an extended vacation, or Jason died in a car accident. Two, even, can be done without suspicion. But you start moving past that? The public's dumb, but they're not _that_ dumb.

And seven Gotham heroes being publicly killed at the same time as seven Waynes, both with only one survivor? That's when you pack it in. That's when you stop pretending, because they're going to know anyway.

So the world knows the Big Secret now. Dick's not made any official statement—because _fuck that_ —but the media's running wild with the story of the Wayne family being the heroes of Gotham, finally revealed.

The story gains more and more traction the longer Dick doesn't deny it, and there's a permanent fixture of reporters that seem to live down at the Manor gates, waiting for a confirmation or at least _something._

Dick sure is leaving Kate with a mess, when she eventually comes back to Gotham, but he genuinely doesn't have it in him to care. The secret's out, so what. Not like there's anyone left to protect.

They always invite him on patrol, whichever unlucky hero has the Gotham or Bludhaven shifts for the day. They always offer, always look hopeful even if they're trying not to. Always make a joke to lighten the mood.

And Dick always turns them down, because he couldn't give less of a shit about patrol. Why should he? What's the point? They're all _dead._ His entire family, _gone._ In the matter of minutes Dick's entire life shattered into pieces, and now he's supposed to care about someone having their purse snatched?

He lived. He survived, instead of any of them. He's the _winner,_ then, some would say. Look at you, you survived! But Dick has never felt more worthless, more _lifeless._ He can't believe his heart is still beating, his lungs still working. How is that fair? How is it fair that he continues to exist when his _entire family—_

So he gets used to the concealed disappointment on everyone's faces when he turns them down. Gets used to the furrowed eyebrows of concern and frustration when he refuses to engage in any kind of contact at all.

In the past, he would've wanted to soothe all of that. Flash a charming smile, offer a clever quip, ease the tension that rests inside of everyone because he can.

Now he sits and he watches and he wonders what the others would do in his position, and can't find it in himself to be the slightest bit amused by his own wild theories.

Dick tries to deal with it all. He tries to put up with the constant attention, the comforting looks and touches, the urges to stay involved. He tries to handle their well-meaning actions, but as the days pass it begins to grate harder and harder until he feels like he's going to burst if one more goddamn person sends him a casserole.

It's the night he gets a voicemail from Kate saying that she'll be back the next morning that he realizes he can't do this anymore.

Kate's return means connection to the outside world, means finally talking to Wayne Enterprises and to the media and dealing with all of the shit going on and call Dick a coward but he _doesn't want to._ He doesn't want to deal with any of it, it's _meaningless_ to him. It's trivial and stupid and pointless. Everything's pointless. What does any of this fucking matter, if they're dead?

It's not until he's three quarters of the way through the task that he realizes he's packing.

His hands stutter, but keep moving, continuing to put the important things into the duffle bag on his bed. Some clothes, a few items from the circus, a photo of them all together, a drawing Damian made, some gear, a few small gifts from his family...

His chest is tight, making it almost hard to breathe. His throat feels like there's a giant lump stuck in it. His eyes burn. But he's _not_ crying, because what's the fucking point, they're all dead and a few tears aren't going to bring them back, so who gives a fucking shit.

The Manor is just as empty and dead as it always feels nowadays, and he walks through the halls one last time, taking the shortest way possible to the door.

He wants to light the entire place on fire, watch it go up in smoke from far away. Let it all burn to the ground.

But this is where he and Bruce formed their bond. This is where he helped Alfred make chocolate chip cookies, and first got Damian to trust him. Where he played video games with Jason, and practiced ASL with Cass. The staircase he once carried Tim up after a hard night's patrol, and the dining room table Duke scorched when the pair of them were playing a game.

This place might be empty and cold and dead, but it was filled with life, too. And as much as he wants to burn all of that from his memory—

He can't deprive his family of the last bit of life they have.

So instead he turns and he goes, leaving everything behind.

* * *

Dick hasn't been to the beach in _years._

He always wanted to take Damian, to see what the kid would think of a place like this, but they just never got around to it. He kept saving the idea for later, sure that they had all the time in the world and would go to the beach whenever they got to it.

He wishes he'd taken him. He wishes he'd dragged them _all_ here, the city folk that are the batclan. None of them are truly outdoorsy people, and going to a place like the beach is such a nice change of pace for people who spend their entire lives in concrete jungles.

It would've been fun, Dick imagines. There would've been bickering, as per usual, and some level of fighting, of course, as they were wont to do. But they would've enjoyed riding the waves and making ridiculous sandcastles and eating overpriced boardwalk food, and it would've been...it would've been good.

Now, standing here on an empty beach in the middle of the night, he simply feels insignificant.

The world is so ridiculously huge, and at the end of the day who is he? Someone who couldn't save his family. Someone who maybe doesn't even want to survive. How much hubris has he had, to think what he does matters? Looking out at this gigantic, powerful ocean, he can't help but feel like a grain of sand waiting to get washed away.

He knows he's done a lot of good in the world, he won't dismiss that. He knows he's saved people. But if he can't save the people who matter the most to him, then what's the fucking point? _Seven people_ are dead, died right in front of him, and he couldn't do a damn thing to stop it. Seven people that he loves with his entire being, and they're just...gone. So honestly what's the point of keeping on like the others want him to?

He's been through so much over the course of his life. So many awful, _awful_ things have happened to him. And he's kept going, kept getting up day after day because that's what you do, what you have to do. That's how the game of life is played.

Tragedy after tragedy he did what he was supposed to do. He always picked himself back up, ignoring the bruises and breaks. He's lost so many people. Experienced so many horrible things. And he always tried...always...

People have their breaking points, don't they? You can only bend a person so far before they snap. He's seen it happen enough, after all. He just never thought—

He couldn't have imagined _this._ Could've never pictured losing them _all_ in _one fell swoop._ He can barely comprehend that they're truly gone, that they were _taken_ from him.

They were taken from him. A group of low-lives _killed his family,_ and he was too weak to take them down. They're out there boasting their success, and Dick is left all alone, the pitiful lone survivor.

He should've died with them. It should've been all or nothing, like it was supposed to be.

He was too useless to save his family. He couldn't do a damn thing then. But now...but now he can—can avenge them. He can destroy the people who killed them. Who thought it was _fun_ to break the leg of a thirteen-year-old and then shoot him in the head. Then men who _laughed_ as Dick and the others _begged—_

He can do that. He...he can find them. He can _end_ them.

They're going to really wish they'd pulled that trigger a second sooner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lu, you expressed an interest some time ago in Dick snapping and becoming a major villain. So here we are my dude! Buckle up XD
> 
> As you know, this idea really snowballed on me, so yay multichapter fic! The entire thing's all plotted out and two of the five chapters are written, so stay tuned for more!


	2. Hunting

The man's name is Robert Lockhart. He is forty-two years old, an ex-marine, a widower. Dishonorably discharged ten years ago for murdering innocent civilians and assaulting a superior officer. Moved to Chicago and immediately began building his gang. Got married, wife died three years later under suspicious circumstances. Rose in power steadily before deciding that controlling mobs wasn't enough, he wanted to be the man to take down superheroes.

Moved to Gotham.

...Completed his goal.

Dick remembers his face, every single detail. The scar on the side of his chin that reaches the corner of his mouth. The deep-set brown eyes. The full head of blond hair, just beginning to gray at the temples. The gun strapped to his thigh, the stereotypical cargo pants and tight black t-shirt to show off his muscles. The cruel curve of his mouth as he ordered his men to torture them, as he monologued about his own superiority.

It is not, actually, all that challenging to find Lockhart and his men.

They're not really hiding, feeling secure in the blow they've dealt to Gotham. They're not even all that wrong; only one hero left alive—what threat could Nightwing be, really? Especially when he doesn't kill. Especially when he's all alone.

Seems they're going to be learning something extremely important today.

Dick still remembers what it felt like to slam his fists into the Joker's face, to unleash all his rage and grief onto the monster responsible for taking his brother—thought, at the time, to be broth _ers_ —from him. He remembers the Joker falling limp, his heart no longer beating. He remembers the moment of _satisfaction_ before the horror hit him.

This won't be the first time Dick's killed to avenge his family. This might be more thorough planning, more premeditated, but the concept is the same. If anything, his success is even more guaranteed.

Robert Lockhart is a despicable human being, and so are the men who follow him. They didn't hesitate to do his bidding, to torture and _kill._ None of them deserve to live. Dick will be doing the world a _service._

He tracks them down. They're drinking, when he first sets eyes on them. At some bar in Crime Alley, laughing and playing pool, tossing back round after round. Lockhart sits like a king surveying his kingdom. Dick imagines he's already planning his next moves, how he's going to take over Gotham. The other gangs won't really be a threat, not with the power Lockhart has at his fingertips. The smart ones will agree to back off lest they get destroyed.

Dick feels, for a moment, a twinge of pity for Kate. The world might know the Waynes are the Bats, but she should be relatively safe. Not immediate family, a _Kane_ instead of sharing the name, Batwoman always her own entity—Dick knows she won't back down. She'll keep doing the hero thing, trying to defend Gotham when it's at its most vulnerable.

She'll have to deal with the chaos all by herself, because after this...no, Dick can't ever return to being a hero.

But at least him taking out Lockhart and his goons will help her out.

He's wearing his Nightwing suit, because he doesn't see a reason not to. So what if people know he's responsible for this? His career is over anyway, the world might as well know that a Bat is the one who avenged the others. They should know that he wasn't going to just grieve and fade into the background. Maybe then people will think twice before ever pulling something like this again.

Three of Lockhart's men stumble out of the bar, supporting each other as they begin to walk down the street.

Dick, with one last look at Lockhart, follows.

It'll be easier to take them all down in parts, instead of all together. He's still not up to full strength after all, and even if he was, fighting an entire gang by himself wouldn't exactly be easy.

Three, though? He can take down three men in his _sleep._

He waits until they turn off from the main street, no one else around now. And then he strikes, dropping down on them from above. They rear back, shouting in surprise, and he takes the first one down with a single kick to the groin before the others even manage to lift their fists in a pitiful attempt at defense.

They go down just as easily as their friend, none of the drunk idiots landing a single hit on him. Once they're on the ground, groaning and curling up, he drags them into seated positions against the wall and binds their ankles and wrists, then looks at them long and hard.

Lockhart's gang is very big; all of them are culpable for what happened, but not all of them were actually participants in the main event. And these three—he only _really_ recognizes one of them.

The one on the left is the one who broke Tim's jaw. The one who _shot Stephanie._

The weapons Dick carries are not technically supposed to be lethal, but that doesn't mean they're not capable of it. A strong enough charge from his escrima sticks will result in heart failure. And his wingdings? Honestly, they're basically _knives._ Just because he normally throws them with precision to only injure doesn't negate how dangerous they are.

He takes one of them out of his belt, feeling the familiar weight in his palm. The men are just starting to gather themselves, eyes focusing on him. Dick lets them get a good, long look.

"Nightwing?" the one in the middle sputters. "What the _fuck—"_

Dick shoves the end of his weapon into the man's chest, right where the heart is. He chokes, eyes going wide, and the men to either side shout, attempting to scramble away and getting nowhere, tied up as they are.

The blade slides back out with a wet _slick,_ and Dick looks down at the blood covering the metal, throat feeling thick. He turns to the second man.

"Hey, man, wait—" the waste of space tries, raising his bound hands as if to ward Dick off. It's a useless attempt, and Dick's weapon enters his chest just as easily as it entered the first.

He turns quickly to the third, to _him._ Grabs his shoulder and slams him back into position, head smacking back against the brick wall. He looks at his dying companions with wide eyes, breaths coming in short and fast as fear hits him.

Dick revels in it, just a little. This man hurt his little brother, _killed_ a girl he considered family. It's good that he's afraid, after what he did, what he was a part of. He wants them _all_ to be afraid.

"What's your name?" Dick asks.

The man doesn't answer him, still staring at his friends, now limp and dead and covered in their own blood. Dead, they're dead. They're actually dead. And Dick is the one who—

Focus. Time for that later.

"Hey!" Dick snaps, and shakes the man, making his head hit the wall again. The man groans from the pain, eyes flashing forward to lock onto Dick's. "I asked you a _question."_

A beat, and then the man gets out, "Mike Hutchinson."

Mike Hutchinson is the one who killed Steph. Who smirked as he took Tim's jaw in one hand and slammed a baton against it with the other, chuckling when Tim moaned with pain.

Dick draws one of his escrima sticks. He places a hand over Mike's mouth and then presses the electrified end of the stick to the exposed skin of his neck, listening to it crackle as Mike screams low in his throat, teeth clacking together. He shudders and spasms, and continues to do so after Dick flicks the electricity off, eyes drifting hazily.

Dick waits for a count of five, and then does it again. Mike jerks, and then there's a hiss as he pisses himself. Dick's lips curl upward.

He slides the escrima stick back into its holster and doesn't hesitate to shove his blade into Mike's neck, pulling it out immediately and watching the blood begin to spill. Mike gurgles, shivering as he chokes on his own blood, and then he's no more.

The three men lie dead.

Dick gets to his feet. His legs shake slightly, and he braces a hand against the wall to hold himself up as he takes a few deep breaths. Nausea spins in his gut, and he swallows it back. Now is not the time nor the place. He needs to get to a safehouse. He needs...he needs to not be out in the open, or linger around the sight of a murder.

He manages to get to a safehouse a few blocks away before it hits him. He folds to his knees in the living room, curling into a tight ball, shaking. He killed three men. He—it was the right thing to do. He did it for his family, got rid of three horrible, _horrible_ men. But it's. He killed them. He actually killed three people.

He wants his family here with him. He wants their support, he wants—he wants Jason to tell him he did the right thing. He wants Damian to tell him he understands. He wants all of them to not be dead in the fucking first place.

"It's okay," Dick whispers to himself. "It's—you're okay. You're not a bad person. You're doing the right thing."

He believes that. These are despicable human beings, and they deserve to die. He couldn't save his family but he _can_ avenge them, can make sure no one is hurt by Lockhart and his people ever again. It's...Bruce wouldn't understand, but he doesn't have to.

And besides, he's dead. He'll never understand anything ever again. And that's because of these people.

Dick gathers himself, pushing off of the floor and heading into the bathroom. He strips off his suit, ignoring the blood that stains his gloves, and gets in the shower. The hot water soothes his tense muscles, helping him relax further. He finds himself suddenly, utterly exhausted.

His dreams that night are, of course, nightmares.

But at least it allows him to see his family again.

* * *

The next grouping is easier.

He understands the feeling now, what it's like to kill so purposefully. He can push back the conflicted emotions, can remind himself of the fact that he's _right_ to do this far more easily.

He kills them the same way he did the others, taking down two more men amongst them that were _there,_ that were directly responsible.

He cleans their blood off his weapons later, his hands shaking just a little, and gets to work on finding the next ones.

* * *

By the time he works his way through sixteen men—six of them individuals who personally hurt his family—Lockhart and the rest are on guard.

Some went running scared, booking it out of Gotham, and he lets them go, none of the ones he _really_ wants, just insects in the grand scheme of things. Knowing that they're afraid and running to hide is good enough for him.

He keeps picking off the ones who stayed, until he has to prepare for a more thorough assault. Lockhart and his remaining men have holed up in a warehouse, armed to the teeth and their few metas standing guard, ready to take him out.

Dick's been going up against metas since he was nine years old. They don't scare him, they just remind him to be more cautious.

He's _so close_ to being done, to getting them all. His body is buzzing with adrenaline, with something maybe akin to excitement. He's actually going to do it. He's actually _succeeding._ There had been some small amount of doubt, a piece of him that thought maybe they'd take him down before he got very far, but—but he's doing it.

He uses all of his stealth training to remain as unnoticed as he can. He picks an entrance and picks off the two men guarding it, throats slit before they even realize he's there. He barely manages to avoid the spray of blood, a few droplets staining his sleeve. He feels nothing but faint distaste at the sight.

Dick creeps through the halls like he has a thousand times before. He can almost feel Robin at his heels, sense Batman in the darkness of the rafters up above him.

It sends a pang of longing and loss through his chest, and he quickly banishes the thought, refocusing his mind on the task at hand.

Lockhart has three metas on his payroll—one of them one of the people who fled Gotham—and Dick encounters the first after he's already taken down four men. She has super-strength, Dick remembers, and her muscles show off just a fraction of that strength. He has an inhibitor collar with her name on it, but that requires getting close enough to snap it into place.

She charges, he spins out of the way. These last few days, tracking these people down—none of them have given him a real fight. But now, it's like being a hero again, facing off against villains bigger and stronger than he is. They always underestimate him, and she's no different.

She's also quick to anger apparently, and sloppy in her rage. The punches that land hurt like a bitch, but he's far faster and avoids a majority of the damage.

He flips over her, using her shoulders as a springboard. He lands behind her, and before she can turn to face him he snaps the collar around her neck.

From there, the fight is over rather fast. She's not much of a fighter without her strength.

She's the one who held Bruce in place for one of Lockhart's men to punch again and again. He stands and he watches her choke on her blood until she's dead, and then he moves on.

The second meta has telekinesis. He's still an accomplished fighter once Dick manages to collar him; the fight is harder than the other one. Dick feels an intense level of satisfaction when he slams his escrima stick against the man's temple and sends him crashing to the ground. His head hits the floor with a loud _crack,_ and a puddle of blood begins to spill.

Dick continues on.

Lockhart is holed up in what used to be the foreman's office. There are a pair of guards outside the door; one gets a shot off, but Dick ignores the pain, slamming his fist into the man's face again and again and then stabbing him through the heart.

When he opens the door to the office, there are multiple guns pointed at him.

The remaining people responsible are all here. They shift anxiously, hands tight on their weapons. Lockhart doesn't flinch.

"Hello, _Richard,"_ the man greets, smirking. "You've made quite a mess of things, haven't you?"

Dick _hates_ this man. Rage boils in his gut, heating his blood. He almost can't breathe under the force of it, hands tightening on his weapons, the metal biting into his gloves.

Lockhart's smile grows when Dick says nothing. "You've killed a lot of my men, Richard. Fucked up a lot of my plans. That can't go unpunished, you understand. But if you lay your weapons down right now, _maybe_ you'll get to live after we're done with you."

No, Dick has no intention of surrendering and letting these animals torture him for however long they feel like it. Not a chance in hell.

He throws a wingding, the blade plunging into Lockhart's shoulder and pulling a shout out of the man. Dick's in motion in the next moment, utilizing the second of shock to dodge the first spray of bullets.

He can't take his time with these men, too focused on taking down the enemy and _surviving,_ but each blow he deals sparks satisfaction, and listening to their pain is music to his ears as one by one they go down until only Lockhart remains.

The man is standing, blood running down his arm. He fires, hitting Dick in the side. It fucking hurts, but the adrenaline rushing through him keeps him from feeling most of the pain, keeps him on his feet. He darts forward, disarming Lockhart and slamming him back into his chair, holding his blade at his throat to keep his docile.

Lockhart goes still. The look in his eyes is calculating, still trying to find a way out of this. It's pointless; Dick isn't backing down. Why on Earth would he? He finally has the man responsible in his hands. After killing all of his men—he's not stopping right before the job is complete.

"You never should've come here," Dick tells him. "Or you should've at least been _faster_ and finished the job you started."

"This won't bring them back," Lockhart says, just a hint of nerves in his voice. "Killing me, it won't—"

Dick snorts. "This isn't about _bringing them back,_ you could never give me that, you piece of shit. This is about getting rid of the people who took them from me in the first place."

Lockhart tries a different approach. "Bats aren't supposed to kill. What would Bruce think?"

Amusement fills Dick, and he smiles. "My dad is _dead._ He can't think anything anymore, and that's because of you. And you really think after _all the people I've killed,_ I'll draw the line at _you?_ This isn't a TV show, that's not how it works."

His blade slides slowly into the hollow of Lockhart's throat. He watches the pain and fear and shock, holds him in place as he jerks, easily knocks aside his pitiful attempts at fighting back. Blood spills down his chest, red going everywhere. When he coughs, it comes out of his mouth.

And then Robert Lockhart is dead.

Dick doesn't move for a long while, unable to get himself to. He stays there and stares, taking in the slack, _dead_ face of the man who's brought him so much pain. Who killed his family and left him all alone.

It's not until he hears sirens that he kicks himself into gear, walking to the door and not looking back.

* * *

Dick's never been much of a drinker.

Bruce's training drilled into his head the importance of always being on guard and clear-headed, which drinking really doesn't agree with. It also helps that he genuinely doesn't care for the taste.

But now he sits in a bar and orders another stiff drink as he finishes his first. He has a slight buzz going on, and he can't tell whether or not he likes it, whether it's helping or making him feel worse.

He doesn't know what to do now, is the thing. He threw himself into that cause, and now that it's done—everything feels empty again. He feels pointless.

He completed his goal. He avenged them all, killed the ones who killed his family. That's—good. It's _really_ good. He feels it deep down, a small sort of peace over the fact that he did what he set out to do, that Lockhart and his men will never hurt anyone ever again. That they didn't get away with it.

But it's also...it didn't fix anything inside of him. Bruce and the others are still dead. He's still alone. For as much as he's glad he killed Lockhart—he still just feels empty.

He could go back to the Manor, he knows. Kate wouldn't hesitate to welcome him back, regardless of what he's done. She's alone now too, he's forcing that existence onto her. He might not be much right now, but he could be _something_ for her.

He knows he won't, though. He can't do it. He can't go back to that place, devoid of everyone who made it home. Knowing that most of the ones who lived there would hate what he's done.

There's nothing for him anymore, not anywhere. He can't do the hero thing. He can't live a normal civilian life. He can't even really be _Dick Grayson_ anymore, not with the whole world knowing he's Nightwing. And if it really does get out that Nightwing was the one who killed all those men—well, even if people agreed that he was justified, it's still fucking illegal. Gordon would have to arrest him.

Maybe Dick deserves to go to prison. Maybe he should turn himself in. He completed what he set out to do after all, and now there's...nothing. He doesn't care about anything. There's no real reason _not_ to turn himself in. His freedom means nothing to him.

Maybe he should finish what Lockhart started, join his family in death.

Someone slides onto the barstool beside him and flags down the bartender. Dick glances at the man briefly, wary simply because it's in his nature after so many years, but the guy doesn't look like much of a threat. Even not completely sober, Dick knows he could take him.

The man orders his drink and thanks the bartender, then turns and looks at Dick. "Dick Grayson?"

Dick tenses, eyes narrowing suspiciously. He supposes he was bound to get recognized by someone eventually—his face really has been everywhere lately, and the Bats are a big deal to the people of Gotham—but the way the man says his name and looks at him is purposeful. He didn't just stumble across Dick; he came here looking.

"What do you want?" Dick asks warily.

"I'm sorry for your loss," the man replies.

Dick scowls and looks away, swallowing more of his drink. He's tired of sorrys. They didn't make him feel better when coming from people he actually likes, and it _certainly_ doesn't make him feel better coming from a complete stranger in a bar.

"What do you _want?"_ Dick repeats.

"To hire you."

Dick snorts, a little amused. He looks back over to the man, cocking an eyebrow. _"Hire_ me? What could you possibly want to hire me for?"

"You did good work on Lockhart and his crew," the man says levelly, without a hint of doubt that Dick was the one responsible. How far spread is it, Dick wonders. He hasn't exactly been keeping his ear to the ground; does all of Gotham know? Or just people like this, clearly involved in crime in some way?

"Good work," Dick echoes. What a strange way to think of it.

"Yes," the man agrees, dipping his chin in a nod. "Efficient, brutal, and clearly without too many injuries to yourself. Shouldn't be a surprise you're good at this kind of thing, considering you've been fighting nightly for, what, most of your life?"

Dick nods slowly. "Yeah. So you want to hire me to...what? _Kill_ someone?"

"Yes," the man says. "I'm probably not the only one, too; you already had a rep as Nightwing, and you just auditioned for the other side of things in quite a big way. I wouldn't be surprised if everyone wants to ask you to the prom."

Dick blinks at him, flabbergasted. Seriously? People looked at what Dick did and their thought was to _hire_ him, not fear? All he was doing was getting revenge, _avenging_ his family, he wasn't— _auditioning_ for anyone.

"For me, it's my old business partner," the man continues. "He stole quite a lot of money from our company—tried to frame me for the crime, too. I want him dead, and I'll pay you to do it."

Like an assassin, or a mercenary. That's what this man wants him to become.

He doesn't think he's better than that, not anymore, not after all the people he's killed. But it's—it's _so different._ The people he killed were responsible for his family's deaths, _tortured_ them and laughed while they did it. It was intensely personal, and now it's over. Killing people for money? That's a whole different ball game.

It takes him aback a little, how little he's actually _opposed_ to the idea. He just...doesn't have it in him to care that much, not anymore. He's already killed, already adjusted to the idea of himself as a _killer,_ and he was just wondering what the fuck he was supposed to do now. He was considering...permanent ends to his pointless existence. But he could—he could do this.

He can't be a hero anymore. He could never become just a regular civilian. Does he actually care enough to stop himself from going down this path?

...No, no he doesn't think he does.

He downs the last couple sips of his drink in one gulp, slamming the glass onto the bar top. He asks, "How much?"

The man smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! We've hit the end of my pre-written sections, but one of my 2021 writing resolutions was to outline my multichapter fics and so far so good! This baby is all planned out and ready to be written. Stay tuned!
> 
> A sneak peak from my outline for something that happens next chapter XD  
> 


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